His rooms must be privately searched. Stackhurst was a willingcollaborator, for in his mind also suspicions were forming. Wereturned from our visit to The Haven with the hope that one freeend of this tangled skein was already in our hands.
A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon thematter and had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhursthad made discreet inquiry about his subordinate, and therehad been a superficial search of his room, but without result.
Personally, I had gone over the whole ground again, bothphysically and mentally, but with no new conclusions. In all mychronicles the reader will find no case which brought me socompletely to the limit of my powers. Even my imagination couldconceive no solution to the mystery. And then there came theincident of the dog.
It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strangewireless by which such people collect the news of the countryside.
“Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson’s dog,” said she oneevening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrestedmy attention.
“What of Mr. McPherson’s dog?”
“Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master.”
“Who told you this?”
“Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and haseaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemenfrom The Gables found it dead—down on the beach, sir, at thevery place where its master met his end.”
“At the very place.” The words stood out clear in my memory.
Some dim perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind.
That the dog should die was after the beautiful, faithful natureof dogs. But “in the very place”! Why should this lonely beachbe fatal to it? Was it possible that it also had been sacrificed tosome revengeful feud? Was it possible —? Yes, the perception wasdim, but already something was building up in my mind. In a fewminutes I was on my way to The Gables, where I found Stackhurstin his study. At my request he sent for Sudbury and Blount, thetwo students who had found the dog.
“Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool,” said one of them. “Itmust have followed the trail of its dead master.”
I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid outupon the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyesprojecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every lineof it.
From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. Thesun had sunk and the shadow of the great cliff lay black acrossthe water, which glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The placewas deserted and there was no sign of life save for two sea-birdscircling and screaming overhead. In the fading light I could dimlymake out the little dog’s spoor upon the sand round the very rockon which his master’s towel had been laid. For a long time I stoodin deep meditation while the shadows grew darker around me.
My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You have known whatit was to be in a nightmare in which you feel that there is someall-important thing for which you search and which you know isthere, though it remains forever just beyond your reach. That washow I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place of death.
Then at last I turned and walked slowly homeward.
I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Likea flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly andvainly grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, thatI hold a vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientificsystem, but very available for the needs of my work. My mind islike a crowded box-room with packets of all sorts stowed awaytherein—so many that I may well have but a vague perceptionof what was there. I had known that there was something whichmight bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at least I knewhow I could make it clear. It was monstrous, incredible, and yet itwas always a possibility. I would test it to the full.
There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed withbooks. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour.
At the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate andsilver volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had adim remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikelyproposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure ifit might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mindeagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.
But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardlyswallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach whenI had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary—asteady, solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at menow with a very troubled expression.
“I know your immense experience, sir,” said he. “This is quiteunofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly upagainst it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make anarrest, or shall I not?”
“Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?”
“Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think ofit. That’s the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to avery small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?”
“What have you against him?”
He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There wasMurdoch’s character and the mystery which seemed to hang roundthe man. His furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident ofthe dog. The fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in thepast, and that there was some reason to think that he might haveresented his attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all my points,but no fresh ones, save that Murdoch seemed to be making everypreparation for departure.
“What would my position be if I let him slip away with all thisevidence against him?” The burly, phlegmatic man was sorelytroubled in his mind.